


Smol

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon’s not above being too cute to kick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smol

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for lieutenant-of-darkness’s “the wolf!Mairon [picture you once drew](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/132703846265/back-have-a-tiny-mairon-boop)” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He knows something’s gone wrong, of course, can _feel_ it, even if he doesn’t swoop through his towers like the great shadow he once was. He sees it in the eyes of every twisted creation he passes, all mighty warriors cowering worse than usual. None dare to tell him—he isn’t above killing messengers. He has one being that will tell him anything, and he lounges back in his throne while he waits for Mairon to come. 

It happens in the morning, when the red sun’s risen again and Melkor’s shadows have receded. He hates these times, when the light floods in through all his windows to paint the black stones gold. Mairon looks _right_ when he slips through them, appearing through the giant doors that keep the rest of the dungeons from the throne room. Mairon was _fire_ once, stills seems that way sometimes, and the sun’s radiance only highlights his beauty. Sometimes, Melkor begrudges that. 

He waits on his anger today, knowing something else is coming. Mairon sweeps towards him, long, crimson robes brushing over the barren floor. At Melkor’s throne, Mairon kneels, the way an orc might grovel instead of Melkor’s trusted Maiar. 

With his ever-lit eyes downcast, Mairon announces bluntly, “The elf has escaped.” He needn’t say which. They only had one of value, one they threw over a cliff and left to die, more to punish Fëanor’s memory than anything else. Melkor’s temper flares, and he thinks to ask how, though it’ll come out a bellow, a shout, a threat, and he’s already toying with the urge to kick Mairon’s frail Elven-like body across the floor.

But Mairon isn’t waiting for that; he’s shifting. Melkor’s seen him transition many times from one form to another, never as powerful as they once were but still dangerous within the mortal-figure restraint. Usually, it’s to the body of a wolf. Now his ears rise on his head, widening and greying, fur sprouting along the flesh. Soon two pointed ears sit atop his head, and a fluffy tail’s flicked out of his robes, curling up. Mairon finally lifts his face, brows knit together in a hurt look; his shoulders hunch and his tail curls. 

Melkor knows exactly what he’s doing: trying to be too cute to be mad at. It’s a horrendously stupid scheme that his servants should be above, though Melkor does suspect that Mairon learned such manipulative tactics from his very master. Melkor often masqueraded in fair form, though he never lowered himself to the look of a kicked puppy.

Melkor would have no trouble punting an actual puppy over a cliff. But this one murmurs, “Sorry,” and crawls that extra step forward on hands and knees so he can sit properly at Melkor’s feet. He has the nerve to rest his chin on Melkor’s knees.

Melkor wants to smack him in the face but somehow winds up reaching one blackened hand behind his ear. When Melkor scratches there, Mairon makes a toothy grin and nuzzles forward into Melkor’s outer thigh. His tail starts to wag, and soon, he’s purring.

He’s very, very difficult to be mad at sometimes. One lost, broken elf seems a rather unimportant thing when Melkor has such prettier toys under his control. Besides, Mairon can hunt him new elves. Mairon is useful for a good many things, when he isn’t pretending to be a deceptively tame pet. 

So Melkor sits there petting him while the fury—half at Mairon for doing this and half at himself for falling for it—slowly ebbs away. And he can’t help but wonder if he has another general somewhere he can punish that isn’t so damn adorable.


End file.
